


Under lock and key

by JaqofSpades



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: F/M, Good Ship Charloe Valentine's Day Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:03:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3342959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary:  "She's an old hand at ignoring this stubborn, idiotic crush by now.  But she's not usually tied to a pole, drowning in the smell and feel of him as she tries to concentrate on picking a lock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I took the Good Ship Charloe's Valentine's Day challenge to work all 15 miniprompts into a story. They were: lace, satin sheets, UR Sweet, Chocolate, Honeymoon, chaos, photograph, good morning, bathtime, roadtrip, handcuffs, trapped, stockings, red panties, surprise.

“Fucking Valentine's Day,” Monroe says, head thunking back against the pole between them, his entire body vibrating with leashed fury. Charlie refuses to let his little temper tantrum break her concentration – she's been working on his cuffs for at least half an hour, under less than ideal working conditions, and just needs this to be over. She makes a soothing noise and keeps twiddling. 

Just as well misogyny can work for a girl sometimes, she thinks sourly as she pokes at the mechanism with the tiny piece of wire that lives inside her bra. She'd been tied to the pole first, but their rope work was so sloppy, she had freed her hands within minutes of their captors leaving the tent. Unfortunately, they'd taken Monroe more seriously, sitting them back to back and then yanking his arms right around to handcuff them together in her lap.

“Maybe you can still give your girl a Valentine's Day treat this way,” the big guy had leered, complete with a set of crude gestures that had made Monroe thrash against the pole for long, fruitless minutes. Charlie had bitten down hard on her lip in a bid to ignore the sensation of his muscles flexing against her breasts and her belly, the prison of his arms making her feel more trapped than any number of idiot bounty hunters ever could.

He doesn't know what he's doing to her, she tells herself. She's not his girl. Who they are, the things between them … she can't be. But that doesn't keep her pulse from racing when his fingers brush hers, or do anything to dispel the tension that rises between them so frequently these days. A year since they defeated the Patriots, two since she found him in New Vegas, nearly three since she stared down Strausser's gun that first, crazy day in Philadelphia – she's an old hand at ignoring this stubborn, idiotic crush by now. But she's not usually tied to a pole, drowning in the smell and feel of him as she tries to concentrate on picking a lock.

And he wants to _talk_. 

He's launched into all the evils of Valentine's Day, something about teddy bears and expensive cards and candies with U-R-Sweet written on them, but she's not listening, can't, because his voice rubs her raw and robs her of every last weapon she has.

“What's wrong?” 

He's craning his neck to try and see her and Charlie prays it was a snort rather than a moan that betrayed her, and hides her face with the fall of her hair as she returns to twiddling the piece of wire in the lock. “Nothing. Just annoyed I can't get this.”

“I'm sorry, kid. Didn't mean to keep you from all your not-so-secret admirers on Valentine's Day.”

She rolls her eyes at his mention of the soldier boys trying to talk their way into her bed. There aren't as many as he seems to think there are, and it's been a while since she let anyone past the door. Yet he still needles her with sly jabs about the men brave enough to take on a Matheson. 

(He calls them boys, and in her mind, she does the same. Age has nothing to do with it, just like it's not her being a Matheson that's the issue.) 

At least they're nowhere near as persistent as the women chasing Monroe. Not many seemed to catch him – or he's discreet if they do – but Valentine's Day had brought the pursuit into sharp focus.

“What about you? Is that how we ended up on this little roadtrip – you trying to hide from all those little presents they left on your doorstep? Was that actually a heart-shaped cake? Never seen so much home cooking in my life.”

He shrugs, and Charlie has to bite down on her tongue as his hands shift in her lap. The silken rasp of his voice leaves her a puddle of want at the best of times, and when he's touching her … she needs to focus on the cuffs, and getting them out of here, she tells herself, redoubling her efforts. No more idle chitchat.

“Hey. Don't knock it. I've never been one for Valentine's Day, but at least this stuff you can eat. Better than lace underwear and tacky satin sheets,” he drawls, disgust clear in his voice.

“And now I'm picturing you in lace underwear,” she says before she can yank the words back. Or the image. Dammit.

He barks with delight.

“Hey, I'd make it look good. You, though -” he stops, suddenly realising he's blundered over one of the boundaries they try to preserve.

But the damage is done, the hurt flickering over her face before she is able to push it away. She notices him noticing, and makes a pathetic attempt at turning it into a joke. “Not exactly the delicate type, am I,” she mutters, redoubling her focus on the lock.

“Charlie. Charlotte!” he says urgently as she refuses to look back up at him. “Goddammit, you know that's not what I meant,” he pleads. She flashes him a dismissive smile but can't bear his stricken face, the thought that he's worried about her feelings, like some protective uncle. So she looks away again, missing the moment he stares up at the ceiling, a desperate last salvo in the fight he's been losing for months.

His voice is edged with chaos when he finally speaks.

“No lace, Charlie. No fucking satin either. It'd be a fucking travesty against your skin,” he rasps, then nearly dislocates his shoulder to be able to look at her as he continues. “If you were my Valentine, I'd be finding us a room somewhere and locking us in for 48 hours solid and the _last_ thing you would need would be fancy underwear.”

“I'd be so desperate to get to you I'd probably cut it off anyway,” he confesses, and Charlie's mouth drops open as every cell in her body screams the truth.

He's not talking in hypotheticals. He's not joking. And he's sure as hell not playing protective uncle. Bass Monroe wants her. In the naked way.

Charlie's fingers start to shake as she stabs at the lock with new fervour. In a minute, she'll be able to speak, but right now she needs these handcuffs gone. The expectant silence is heavy around her shoulders, and he's waiting for her to say something, stiff as a board. 

The lock clicks.

Suddenly freed from his arms, Charlie wriggles out of the rope and is on her feet even before he has finished shaking out his aching limbs. She can see regret already clouding his features, and she knows she can't let him back away from this. It's the ringbelt that does it.

It clatters to the floor, and he twists around in surprise. She's already half naked, pulling her jeans free of her ankles, bra and tank already sitting in a heap beside her. 

She lifts her chin stubbornly and glares at him, daring him to tell her this isn't happening. “Happy Valentine's Day,” she growls, and slides a pair of tiny red panties down over her hips to kick them in his direction. She takes a moment to drink in his gobsmacked expression, almost smiling, then stalks around to his side of the pole to drop into his lap.

"So what, exactly, were you going to do with me once you had me naked?" 

He croaks a little, too shocked to respond, then decides there are better things to do with his tongue than try to talk.


	2. Chapter 2

Charlie gasps as his mouth blazes a path down the side of her neck, managing to find a million tiny places she'd never realised were erotically charged. They are. Every slide of his tongue leaves her shaking, and every brush of his teeth rockets straight to her clit, and how the fuck is she going to survive him if that's just her neck?

By the time he cups her breasts in his hands, she's shaking. He gazes down at her, that wicked mouth still for moment, and it takes her a minute to place the emotion heating those blue flame eyes. Lust she was expecting, but the reverence in his eyes comes as a shock.

“Are you sure about this, Charlotte?” Monroe asks, and she raises a brow to remind him of exactly who took her clothes off and climbed into his lap. His smirk is wicked when he retaliates by lifting her nipples to his mouth, one at a time, to worry at them with his lips and teeth without ever breaking eye contact.

“Sorry, you were saying?”

She curses him for a long, excruciating moment before she gives in. “Yes, I'm sure, Monroe. Take your fucking clothes off and please be my Valentine.”

His eyes flash and he nips her mercilessly. “If we're going to do this, you need to call me Bass. And if it's just a one-time thing, tell me now. Maybe I'll find some fucking backbone and say no.”

Charlie finds tears in her eyes when she realises exactly what he's saying. “Say yes, Bass. Yes today, yes, tomorrow, yes next week – this isn't as sudden as it seems.” She wants to tell him why she had come to Austin in the first place, and how empty Willoughby had been when he left, and how she'd looked for him the night he'd delivered the President to them, desperate to understand what that last, long look had actually meant. But she can't, because his tongue is in her mouth, twining with her own, his kiss rough and hungry with need.

He rests his forehead against hers when he finally lifts his head, and drags the words out as if every syllable hurts.

“Can't. Take my clothes off, that is. They might come back, baby. But the minute we're home, I'm gonna lock the door for a week, I promise. No interruptions. Just you and me, at long - fucking - last,” he punctuates with a series of biting kisses.

Charlie blinks – she'd managed to somehow overlook the fact that they were prisoners in the middle of an escape – and racks her brain for the whatever their captors had said on their way out of the tent.

“They were talking about a meeting later. Whether they'd be drunk enough to put up with the client. Maybe there's time?”

“Do we really want to risk it? When we could be getting out of here?” His hands dropped her breasts reluctantly, skimming down her sides to palm her ass. If he was trying to help her off him, the plan backfired the minute his fingers brushed over her most sensitive tissues, making her rise up on a tortured gasp.

“Fuck. You're killing me here, babe,” Monroe moans, and Charlie would tell him it was all his fault if only she could catch her breath. Instead, she drops her head back, hair pooling on his knees behind her as she begins to writhe. Within seconds, he has her spread wide, both hands worshipping the swollen beauty of vulva and labia, vagina and clit.

“Stand up,” he barks, and Charlie tries to blink away the haze of pleasure already threatening to crash down. She pushes herself upright on unsteady legs, and tries to move away, but he seizes her hips instead, pulling her back into him. “B-b-b,” she wails as he flicks his tongue over her clit, fast and brutal.

“Just a taste,” he explains, almost shamefaced, then brings his fingers into play, thrusting them up into her tight channel in a mesmerising, maddening rhythm that has her groaning with delight. He's making similar sounds, grunting with satisfaction as he licks and slurps at the juices dripping down over his face and hand. Charlie tangles her fingers in his hair in a moment of grateful communion and he lifts his head to smile up at her before he changes up the rhythm once more, sucking at her clit to hurtle her over the edge. 

Her knees give out.

She's conscious of nothing except the starburst of pleasure exploding through her, even Monroe's seductive purr fading into nothingness as she convulses around him, a mindless mass of pure sensation, freed from the need to do anything but feel.

“That's it, sweetheart. So beautiful. So, so beautiful,” he's murmuring into her ear as she swims back to the surface. Their surroundings register slowly, and she shudders as she remembers the imperative they've so blithely ignored.

“Well, that was dumb,” she groans into his shoulder, and tries to stand up once more. Monroe shushes her with adoring kisses, then pushes himself to his feet, taking her with him as they stumble about to find her clothes.

Later – much later, after they've glutted themselves on chocolate cake and three hours of utterly sinful bathtime – she'll remember that she never did find the red panties she had thrown at him earlier that day. 

She won't think of them again until Valentine's Day the year following, when he kisses her good morning then hands her a fancy, store-bought box. The dark, wine red of her lost panties is a startling touch of colour against a white lace basque, stockings and suspender belt. Dangling from a loop of ribbon in the centre of the bodice is a small, silver key.

They are posing for their wedding photograph when he tells her where the handcuffs are hidden; Rachel will complain for years about the twin smirks that result. 

Sadly, none of Charlie's underwear, old or new, makes it to their honeymoon.

(They lock themselves in the vestry at the church, and she helps him cut it off.) 

_fin_

 

Disclaimer: This is a transformative work (fan fiction) as protected under the fair use provisions of international copyright law. I am not profiting from this work, nor do I make any claims to, or intend any infringement on, the intellectual properties held by the rights owner.


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